I Am Not The Law
by eaglebeagle
Summary: Irene escapes, and it's up to Joan and Sherlock to track her down. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_"It seems like maybe you're the game." – Joan Watson, "Elementary" 1x21_

The text that wakes her is simple and to the point, and it immediately induces panic: Escaped.

For the first time since she's lived at the brownstone, Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes emerge from their rooms at the same time. Looking at the time, she realizes it's not only two in the morning, but she's only been asleep for about 30 minutes. She is on her way down the stairs when she sees him at the bottom of the staircase, clutching his cell phone much like her. Probably on his way up no doubt to check if she's received the same message. He has a look on his face that probably matches hers: jaw slack and eyes wide followed by immediate recovery.

"Coffee," she says as she makes her way past him and into the kitchen. She does all she can to avoid eye contact with him until she's certain he can't see the worry in her eyes. He's too calm. She remembers the last time he was this calm. That time, she came to discover he'd been on his way to torturing an assassin.

"Files," he says. Sherlock takes off toward the never-ending bookcases.

Joan starts the coffee and busies herself with getting everything she can together. Finally, Sherlock pulls a chair away from the table for her, and she sits at the table with coffee, files and tablets in hand.

"Irene breaking out isn't something unexpected," Sherlock says, settling into his own chair. "Truth be told, I'm shocked she made it as long as she did in prison."

"How did she do it?" Joan asks. "I mean, I know she has an extensive network, but this is ridiculous."

"I'm far less interested in how," Sherlock says. "I want to know why."

There are photographs of crime scenes, of Irene herself and of various newspaper clippings. There are also a few personal things scattered in there, and Joan's fingers grab the only surviving photo of Irene and Sherlock. She gazes down at the picture. Both are smiling, almost bashful as they embrace for some kind of black tie event.

Of course, he hadn't bothered with a suit like a normal man. This would typically make her smile. When Joan doesn't hear him still going through everything she looks up to see him frozen and watching her with a peculiar look on his face that she can't place. His eyes go from Joan to the photo in her hands and back again. With careful fingers, he takes it from her.

"This isn't going to help us figure this out, Watson," he says, putting the photo on another side of the table.

Joan stays quiet and watches him for a long moment while he works. She begins to say something, stops and starts rummaging through the mound of paper.

"Have you thought about the big picture in this case?" Joan asks finally.

"Of course I have," he says, pinning a crime scene picture up on the wall. His eyes are narrowed, concentrating on whatever clues he can deduce from pieces of paper. "But I can't foil her plans if I don't know what it is I'm supposed to be foiling."

"That's not what I'm saying," she says. "She told you that she looks at people and sees games. Not puzzles, like you do. Games."

"You're suggesting that the first round is over, and the game is still going," Sherlock says with a nod. "Based on that theory, we would need to get ahead of her to uncover her end game."

"Exactly," she says. "And to do that we need to know everything about her. We need to be able to discern what's real and what's fake. We need to find out everything about the woman behind the persona."

"And how do you think we're going to do that?" he asks. But she knows he's figured out what she's about to say; he probably just hopes she won't say it.

"You're going to write down everything you know about Irene Adler." Joan hands him a notebook and pen.

Sherlock watches her with a hesitant gaze, not reaching for the pen and paper she holds out. Instead, he narrows his eyes on her. Joan doesn't budge. Instead, she does the same thing to him. For a moment, neither one back down.

"Fine," he says with a glare and a wave of annoyance. "But if you think that this—"

"Just do it, Sherlock," Joan says with a sigh. "Maybe we'll find a lead from it. Either way, we need to figure out who we're dealing with if we're going to end this game once and for all."

He settles and begins writing. Not looking up from the paper, he has an air of irritation that Joan chooses to ignore. She watches him, trying to see any signs of the trigger she knows exists. She wants to sit there with him, if anything to show him that she's going to be there for him no matter what happens in the next adventure.

"Watson, I do not need an audience," he says. "Why don't you go tend to one of your books while I do this?"

She doesn't protest. Instead, she nods and goes to the library, picking up a book and studying it while her mind digests both Sherlock's state of mind and the possibility that Irene isn't just after him anymore. Joan doesn't doubt she's on her list of targets, considering it was her idea that beat her last time. It took all the trust she had to send a recovering addict home with a syringe full of heroin. And in the hospital, it hadn't been the thrill of victory you'd expect when she opened the door to find Irene not only there but confessing to the whole ruse.

Instead, all she could see was her sitting next to Sherlock. The look on her face wasn't an arrogant smile that told Irene she beat her; it was an icy look that warned her to get away from him. Not just now. Forever.

She knows Sherlock well enough to know this is difficult for him. And even though they are partners, she knows he hates showing anything that might be seen as a chink in his armor. Like how much this pains him. Irene Adler was the one person who not only consistently outsmarted him, but she was also the one person he connected with. Until Joan forced herself into his life. Some would find it odd that the two people Sherlock has become close to have forced their way into his life. But not her. It's the only way for anyone to connect with him. Just ask his brother, Mycroft.

When he is done a few hours later, the list is broad to say the least. They relocate to their normal places. She sits on the red couch, and he sits on the floor as they piece together the paper trail. There are several parts of the list pertaining to sensitive matters better left in the bedroom, to which Sherlock will only quip that Joan _had_ said to write down everything. She realizes it's his way of getting back at her for disclosing the most intimate parts of his personal life, something he still resents even though they are friends.

"You say she's from Berkshire," she says, ignoring as best she can the intimate details of the tumultuous relationship standing out on the paper in her hand. Thankfully, her years of being a surgeon trained her to keep her voice the same in situations where emotions are high. "She told you where she's from?"

"No," he says, leaning his head back into the couch to gaze up at her. "But her accent gives that away for her."

"You said she was an American to begin with," Joan points out. "How do you know she didn't fake it like she did before?"

"I thought of that," he says. "But her American accent, at times, was off. I attributed it to her having been in London for so long. Her true accent is quite pure."

"Okay, so we have a basic idea of where she's from," Joan says, pulling up an encyclopedia on the tablet and settling on a map of Berkshire. "And we know she loves art."

"Not much to go on, but I've done it with less," Sherlock says, pursing his lips, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Joan.

She doesn't make eye contact with him. Instead, she rolls her eyes, delves into the files again with another sigh and prepares for another long night surrounded by papers and mystery and puzzles.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Google. Not everything is deducible." – Sherlock Holmes, "Elementary" 1x01_

Joan wakes an hour later. Somehow she fell asleep on the couch with a blanket over her. Sherlock is at her feet, passed out with his head hanging back onto the seat of the couch. He's just starting to snore, and she smiles as she watches him. Carefully so as not to disturb him, she gets up and places the blanket around him. Taking the tablet, phone and a few other papers, she heads into the kitchen.

The coffee is without a doubt cold, so she pours it out, cleans the pot and starts a new batch. Just the smell of it brewing is enough to bring her to her senses. Her eyes wander over the list. Suddenly two things strike her. The brother and the uncle that Irene said were either dead or a lost soul. Joan considers for a moment the woman didn't lie entirely. It would make sense to keep some parts of herself to make the lies she told Sherlock more convincing. Everyone knows that to keep such a secret life going means you have to keep parts of the truth baked into the lies. That makes them more potent, more believable and most importantly, easier to keep up with.

The brother being alive isn't what Joan finds herself looking over, though. Irene wouldn't be crazy enough to tell the truth about her only living relative. The uncle that raised her, though. He might not actually be dead. It's a giant leap she's sure Sherlock would be proud of. Glancing down at her phone, Joan realizes it's almost noon in London and dials the only person she can think of.

"Joan, what a lovely surprise," says the familiar voice.

"Hello, Mycroft," she says. "I hope I didn't disturb you."

"Never, my dear Joan," Mycroft says. She can hear the smile and politeness that can only be a small part of his personality. He is, after all, Sherlock's brother. "Is everything alright?"

Joan knows what he's really asking about. Sherlock. The brother he wants to develop a better relationship with. She smiles.

"Sherlock's fine," she says. "But listen, I was wondering if you knew someone who could help with a case we're working."

"Anything for you," he says. "People of all societies have to eat, and I have very good employees."

Her smile widens. The two really are more alike than they realize.

"We're looking for a woman who calls herself Irene Adler. More importantly, she calls herself Moriarty. She's the head of a criminal network. All I have on her is that she's from Berkshire, may have an uncle somewhere and likes art." Joan is listening to herself and thinks this is going to be a farther stretch than ever. "It's not much, but the sooner we discover who she really is, the less damage she can do to society."

"You're right," he agrees. "It's not much at all, but I'll do some digging. Do you have a picture I could use?"

"I do." Joan looks across the table to the picture of Sherlock and Irene, undisturbed where he put it. She could always edit him out of the picture or put a piece of paper over him or something. It's the only picture they have of her.

"Then consider it done."

For her part, once Joan has the computer up and running and the message sent to Mycroft, she Googles as much as she can about artists in Berkshire. That's where Sherlock finds her. Typing away with so many browsers open she has three rows of them on the bottom of her screen. She can feel him behind her.

"Isn't it enough that I have to worry about Irene sneaking up behind me?" she asks. "I have to worry about you, too?"

Joan turns in her chair and immediately regrets her words. Sherlock is holding his phone, brow furrowed and lips turned downward. It's a look only reserved when he's in the worst of moods.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Captain Gregson said a woman matching Irene's description was spotted coming in this direction," he says as he shoves his phone into his pocket.

"That's too obvious," Joan says. "Someone like her wouldn't do something so irrational. She plans. She calculates. She doesn't get sloppy, and she doesn't do something without a purpose."

"I relayed those exact sentiments to him," Sherlock says. His eyebrows raise, he leans forward on his toes and he balls his fists for a second before releasing them. His eyes glance behind her to the computer. "Any luck?"

Joan glances behind her to the countless screens and considers closing them.

"No."

"To be safe, we should reinforce our escape routes and pack in case we need to leave in a hurry," he says. His words catch her off guard, and she doesn't move. Instead, she stares at him. Something about him isn't normal, even using Sherlock's standards. "Better to be safe, Watson. After all, we can't stop her if we aren't prepared for anything."

Joan is placing Clyde into a box with holes in it when she hears commotion downstairs. Breaking glass of a window shattering. Loud feet pounding on the floor. A book landing against something. And then, there's a thud. She doesn't hesitate when she runs to the door. Putting Clyde and his box beside the door, she races to the source of the sounds.

"Sherlock!" All she can see is him on the floor. Sliding to his limp figure, Joan reaches for his pulse. She doesn't have to even take it because she sees his chest rising and falling. Placing her hand on his back, she glances around to see someone coming from the other side of the room.

Irene might have aimed to knock Sherlock out, but she's definitely aiming to do something entirely more serious to Joan. She can tell that by the look in her eyes. The criminal mastermind looks a little unhinged, and Joan only has a minute to register this before she's forced to get away from Sherlock and kick her self-defense classes into gear.

She doesn't see a gun on her, but she knows Irene doesn't need one. Joan recalls her earliest classes. Before an attacker has gained full control, you must do everything you can while conserving as much energy as possible to injure them so you can get away. It was an easier lesson for her to learn. And now that Irene is standing in front of her, circling her with a calming look on her face, Joan knows this is no time to be civil. She backs into the library, where she knows the windows face the street. It's a long shot, but she's hopeful Gregson and Bell will be there shortly. Plus, there's no threat of further harm to Sherlock.

Irene follows.

Seeing it out of the corner of her eye, Joan grabs the single stick and takes on her stance (instantly deciding to never, ever tell Sherlock if she can help it). Irene lunges for her. Since it's a more natural motion to surge forward than it is to step backwards, Joan is forced to compensate with a swing of the stick and a step to her right. This brings her closer to the door, but farther away from the kitchen. Irene is hit square in the shoulder. It won't be enough damage to really hurt her; adrenaline will cover that up for a little bit.

She staggers, tripping over the papers in Irene's case file. Joan grabs for anything to keep her steady. When there is nothing, all she can do is remember when Sherlock tested her right after Rhys left. Her eyes narrow, and she regains her balance. Irene surges for her again, this time making contact with Joan's jaw.

She remembers Sherlock's endless lectures on self-defense before she finally agreed to take classes. Taking a punch is all about the transfer of momentum. That fist's momentum will be transferred to your body unless you do something about it. See, a fist travels with a specific velocity towards your mass. When that fist hits your body, it slows or stops. But the momentum still needs to go somewhere. This time, that somewhere is the rawness along Joan's jaw. She already feels it stiffening and swelling, but she refuses to let it distract her.

Irene comes at her again, but this time Joan is ready for her. Stepping to the left towards the kitchen, she aims a well-placed kick for the only part she can reach as the woman passes her: Irene's retreating back. Her heel connects, and she turns to run back to Sherlock. But he's still out cold. She keeps shaking him, telling him to get up.

Irene's hands are in her hair, and the first thing to go through Joan's mind is: Why is it when women fight it has to end up a hair pulling contest? Irene has taken a knife from somewhere, and she slices it through the air dangerously close to Joan's exposed throat while she backs her away from Sherlock. At this, Joan grips the woman's wrist and holds the hand containing the knife away. When Irene kicks her, Joan crumbles to the ground but doesn't let go of that knife-toting hand as she tucks her chin to her chest, ducks low and rolls into Irene's feet. The knife hits the ground in the commotion, and Joan gets up as fast as she can. She's certain she hears something pop, and Irene's grunt is all the confirmation she needs. Sherlock is almost awake, but that's not the only thing she's grateful for.

Sirens. Irene hears them, too. But she doesn't run. Instead, she stands over Sherlock, who is still slowly recovering, and holds her injured arm.

"This isn't over," she tells Joan between breaths, grabbing the knife again and holding it delicately over Sherlock's head. She caresses him and glances up at Joan, who is standing rigid.

"You and I both know you won't kill him," Joan pants.

"The rules of the game have changed, my dear Watson," Irene says slowly, teasingly. "Someone must die, and I can promise you it won't be me."

"What are you talking about?" Joan asks.

The sirens are getting closer.

"If you don't want that death to be Sherlock, then I suggest you keep your phone handy," Irene says. "Otherwise, I can't promise anything. And we both know you don't want another man's blood on your hands."

This freezes Joan. Her mind reels, but not because of the mention of that particular skeleton haunting her closet. Her eyes go from Irene to Sherlock to behind her where Gregson and the others are now blocking the street. When she turns back around, Irene is gone, and the kitchen door is open. Sherlock is waking, finally, when she discovers what knocked him out.

"Irene's here," are the first words out of his mouth. Joan reaches for his arm as she kneels beside him.

"She's gone," she tells him. The two make eye contact for a moment. It's just long enough for her to see his reaction to what she's sure will be a bruise. She also sees him register she's been in a fight. She holds up two fingers for him, but before she even asks him to tell her how many she's holding up, he gives her a look she can only decipher as meaning 'You are kidding, right?'. Then she holds up the broken thing. "Angus is broken again."

Sherlock rubs a hand on his head, and his fingers have speckles of blood on them. He makes a face and glances at the broken bust as he gets up.

"I suppose it's time Angus and I had a little chat," he says, staggering a little at first.

"Go easy on him," she says, steadying him with the instant reaction of a hand going to his leg. "I don't think it was his idea."


End file.
